


on some quiet evenings, it burns my eyes

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Marineford, Sabo has If I Talk About My Feelings I Die disorder.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23568880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: Company and drinks.(I can still smell the fire,Even though it's long died out.)
Relationships: Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Sabo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15





	on some quiet evenings, it burns my eyes

He opens so easy for Marco, all slick and soft and warm, pulsing slow and heady around his fingers (two, corded like a promise and dripping with lube and saliva) as they slip in. His mouth opens, too, panting with spit-slick lips gone kiss-bruised, gasping a little as Marco crooks his finger and keening when a hand comes up to brush away the hair plastered in fine little arcs around his brows and over his forehead. Marco kisses the scar, right below his eyelid, feels the way his lashes flutter like moth wings against his nose, fragile,  _ fragile.  _

"We shouldn't be doing this," he speaks right into the scar, lets the words slide over the surface of the burn (smoother than smooth, pink with frailty and made so nothing can root, only slip, slip, slip), and it makes Sabo growl, roll his hips a little into Marco's intruding fingers.

"Little late for that, isn't it?" he turns his head, lets his curls whip over Marco's nose and settle against his face. The "I asked for this, for  _ you _ ." is silent. He gives another petulant little thrust, and Marco relents, scissoring his fingers back and forth inside the blonde. 

He pulls back a little to watch him, presses his thumb to the plush of his lower lip so he can feel the hot air of every sigh pass over his thumb with each little shift of his fingers, each barely-restrained jolt from the younger in return. Sabo rolls his eyes, watching the liquid adoration pool in the pirate's ruddy face, turning his eyes soft at the edges under their perpetual droop. 

His smile is almost pensive, self-conscious in a way not befitting the (prior) first division commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, so Sabo slips his tongue in the scant space between his nail and the flesh of his thumb and good,  _ hunger.  _ The phoenix roars a little, and with it the glow of his face abates, cerulean fire working through his veins and burning a path up from his liver. 

The booze was worth a shot, at the very least, and Sabo privately thanks himself that he's some other mythical beast with less of a stick up its ass, engaging freely in the mortal sin of gluttony and losing oneself in drink. 

The way the laugh burbles from his chest, private and unfettered, weighed down with the saturation of cloth, makes Marco dip down to kiss him, swallow the noise with his mouth. Sabo bites his tongue (he always does), revels in the lick of cool flame against the roof of his mouth, the taste of iron against the bite of hard liquor. Marco still kisses him like his tongue's not just been cleaved in two, soft and deep, like a lover. Sabo's cock stirs a little between the two of them and he pushes back against the rhythm of the older's hand. 

"Ugh," he speaks, strand of spit between them snapping as he pulls away, "and here I thought you'd be a good lay if you were shitfaced." He's overwhelmed with the urge to cry, something pulling from deep inside his chest with childish clumsiness and a profound insistency (Marco's fingers--those skimming his cheeks with unparalleled tenderness, and the, oh, now three thrusting shallowly inside him--surely don't help at all), so he squeezes his eyes shut. It's deeply embarrassing, he thinks, that a Revolutionary can't handle his drink, that he'd think that somehow Marco would-- but, no, again, a lover's fingers find the corner of his eyes to wick away tears from flushed skin. 

He stops moving and Sabo lets loose a little whine when Marco looks down at him, eyes soft and mouth pressed into a thin line, a question. 

“If…” Sabo’s gasping around the sobs that attempt to break loose from his chest, air coming through in quick, inadequate pants, “if you stop, I swear I’ll kill you.” 

Marco’s face crumples, just a little, a tactful furrow of the brow and the pull of his cheek to press against his teeth with pensiveness. He breathes in deep through his nose and kisses Sabo again, tongue tracing wet and flat over his lower lip before sliding into his mouth, giving his fingers a crook. 

He comes with a broken sob, the former division commander’s fingers curling delicate over his cock and mouth over his. He rolls Sabo flat on his back, snotty and grimacing, legs stiff where they hitch over Marco’s shoulders and core gelatinous. Circles, firm and soothing, traced up along the inside of his trembling thighs and up his calves to his ankles as he lowers each leg gingerly to the mattress. 

Sabo’s hands are haki-clad, clawing at the sheets and digging deep curls of foam and cloth into the mattress, and he kicks out in a sudden bout of frustration that breaks through the sated contentedness of his orgasm, leaving his stomach twisting in impatient knots. 

“Fuck! It’s always like this!” he hisses, Marco jumping back to catch his jerking legs and cringe at the display. 

“Sabo,” he says, sending a rush of cool fire up his ankles, careful to keep the worry out of his voice despite the phoenix’s strangled urging in his chest. “I know.” he mutters, letting the flame lick soothing over flushed skin. The revolutionary’s breath becomes measured, deep and even as it rushes forcefully through his nasal cavity, eyes squeezed shut--keeping Marco out, wherever he is, it’s not here. 

And, just like that, he unwinds, legs finally, finally thudding against the mattress. He debates an apology, then sneers into the pillow as he turns. There is no debt here. 

“Get up here before I change my mind,” Marco makes this distressed little sound from the end of the bed somewhere between a trill and a sigh, and it makes Sabo smooth his now softened palms from his forehead to his cheeks, digging the brunts of them into his eyes. 

Marco, with an absent grimace, reaches around to pull one of Sabo’s hands away, and, for once, he yields. The man presses a flat-mouthed kiss to their joined fingers, and Sabo can feel the way he inhales against the skin, fights the niggling sense of irritation that urges him to let his partner taste steel trying to work its way back to the forefront. His lids lower, slow and deliberate. 

Marco casts a heavy glance over Sabo’s shoulder, beyond the veil of their netted fingers, over to where their stout glasses still sit neatly on the desk, cast in amber light that pools in their bases by the bottle set beside them. 

Of course he knew, every urged sip and easy, tinkling laugh that Marco had responded in kind to. The information weighs thick and troubling against his skull, brows knit in concern that he knows the other would disdain. He presses another kiss to the sleeping man’s knuckles.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this way back when I had that little. fixation on Marco's Tori Tori no Mi and thinking about whether or not his healing factor would let him get drunk kjuhygthjk. Maybe I did have some points doe. Maybe. Thought I'd finish 'er up. 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment or anything if you enjoyed. Thanks for reading.
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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